112 Sheila needed an early riser: a girl around the house to help cook and clean and walk the dog. ‘Gammon. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. Afraid, no doubt, he thought grimly, that her other visitor would leave. She would not sleep for fear of losing a moment of that sense of his proximity. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. He could not promise that she would ever appear again in that house. But then the features changed. And it's a maxim of universal application: or, at least, of universal practice.
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